Pueblo Waltz

Pages

Monday, December 24, 2012

I had no expectations for this
album the first time that I heard it. It was a warm July evening and I had just
opened the window next to my bed and laid down with a book—probably wending my
way through the same passage in Proust for the umpteenth time. Knowing what
little headway I would make with my French buddy, I had also put on music. I
had found the band on Spotify, through a friend whose music taste I admire. The
opening song was folksy and warm and I figured: why not?

Indeed…why not. Forty minutes
later I had purchased the album through Amazon’s .mp3 store and I was already
on a second listen. I listened to the album on the train to work the next day
and on the way back home eight hours later. I listened to it—seemingly
nonstop—the entire week. I listened to it a long, traffic-ridden drive to
Boston three times in a row. I sat in bumper-to-bumper on the Mass Pike,
banging my left hand on the outside of the driver’s door to the insidious
military snare of “Submarines” and ho-heying my way into hoarseness on the
album’s—nay, the year’s—most
infectious sing-along.

Most of the Lumineers-oriented
discussion in the past year has focused on the silly idea of the group as some sort
of stylized American response to Mumford & Sons. The American/British
distinction in folk music, of course, while once not such a stupid way of
organization, has devolved into complicated and multi-faceted one in which
there are no clear ‘sides’ or nation-directed tendencies. As I argued in a
Popmatters article a few months ago, talking about Americana artists as a)
American and b) rural and/or lower-class is a simplistic and—simply
put—ignorant way of approaching the subject.

Any person viewing the Lumineers
as the saviors of Americana music as we know it is no more than a lowbrow
visionary. The Lumineers are, instead, the most recent wave in the storm surge
of interest in modern folk music. They’re riding the same tide as Mumford, not
pulling against it. But despite how little I like the Mumford comparison, I
still find it useful. After all, if there is a way to read them in relation to Mumford,
it is as bar-playing, raspy-voiced demo tapers to an expert, arena-rock polish
project that has more in common, at the end of the day, with Boston than with Bob
Dylan.

Of course, I’m slipping into exactly
those distinctions that I ultimately find problematic. So I’ll get to my point:
the takeaway here is that the Lumineers have crafted an album that I want to
defend. I don’t want it to have to do anything other than be itself. I don’t need any backstory and I
don’t need any enlightened discussion about their place in the folk world. It
doesn’t need to save American Americana music. This is an album that touches on
the glory of a roots-rock record like Music
from Big Pink, in the way that it manages to live in its own weird little
world, apart from the strife and struggle of the rest of us and yet (and yet!)
intimately connected at the same time.

This album is luminous, heartfelt,
and down-to-earth. I haven’t met anyone who has expressed indifference to it.
Most people, I think, will find themselves easily ensnared pretty by its
emotional patterning: when the kick drum gallops into gear on “Flowers In Your
Hair,” the song will have won you over; when the pace quickens in “Slow It
Down,” your pulse will as well; when Wesley Schultz crows to you about meeting
him in Chinatown on “Ho Hey”…well, you’ll wish that you had. That other guy
that you’re “not right for”? F—k him. After all, it was the Lumineers—hands
down—who delivered my favorite album of the year.

No one made a better pop album
this year than Passion Pit. This list, of course, is supposed to be my
‘favorite’ albums—not the ‘best’ albums or the ‘greatest’ albums or the
‘most-critically-lauded-that-I-should-feel-some-pressure-to-include-on-my-list’
albums (though there’s some of that on here). But I feel, pretty strongly, that
there was no more iconic statement in the world of pop music this year than
Passion Pit’s sophomore album.

That entire statement, I realize,
is rather dependent on how one defines a good pop album. Some people prefer to
think of it as being in easily digestible form—as in that stridently stupid
Carly Rae Jepsen mode of pop music—with a big hook latched to three chords and
lyrics so dumb that they make my fifth-grade collection of poetry look like
Shakespeare. (Side note: as to why “Call Me Maybe” is being nominated as the
single of year (or at least included on the list) for so many writers/publications
is a mystery to me; yes, it’s ‘catchy,’ but since when did ‘catchy-ness’
outweigh all other factors in judicious critical evaluation? I’m baffled!)
Passion Pit—meaning mostly the songwriter behind the group, Michael Angelakos—aims,
obviously, for a different aesthetic.

When it became public this year
that Angelakos suffers from bipolar disorder, which has led him to a suicide
attempts and several hospitalizations, his music was transformed for many listeners.
Like so many other artists before him, Angelakos became a clear example of
someone with an enormously tormented psyche who makes enormously tormented and,
luckily, talented art. In my review of the album from this past summer, I made
the ungainly comparison of Gossamer
to what I termed a “reverse atomic fireball,” trying desperately to play off
the category of bubblegum pop to make a candy-related point. Part of my sily
point was that no one bothers to make candy like that—why would they? What
would be the point of constructing something that started sweet, but became
more painful the longer you ‘enjoyed’ it?

Usually, this couching of darkness
within cotton-candy lightness is a mark of masterful technique; we step back
from the artwork and admire the deft construction—“Look how sad that song
really was! How fun it sounds on the outside!” But it’s different with
Angelakos. The inner kernel of sadness is not an act. And while the alcoholism,
domestic violence, and economic troubles aren’t so easy to stomach, the hardest
parts are hearing Angelakos wrestle with love—what it is and whether he is
capable of it. These sad, dark musings are encapsulated by Angelakos in “Love
Is Greed” when he sings, “Love is not a veil to hide your voice / All this talk
of love just turns to noise.” This is the great duality of love for Angelakos:
he cannot help but question the emotion and how it works, but, in doing so, it
falls apart.

I like to think of Gossamer’s challenge as a balancing act
between analysis and enjoyment. Applying it to pop music, if we were to
approach pop without doing any analytic work whatsoever, we might as well
listen to anything and be happy. But enjoyment is active as well as passive. We
don’t buzz through albums like lawnmowers; we take our time, we journey back to
Track 1 and through and back again. We create a relationship. There is a deep
beauty in separating the wheat from the chaff. There is also a great sadness in
realizing that there’s no chaff left to sort and our hands our empty. Thanks to
Angelakos et al, pop music hasn’t have that problem in 2012.

Did we expect a happy album? Obviously
not—nor did I really want one. This is an album full of unhappy people dealing
with unhappy things, most often dealing with mental illness. While the album is
a far cry from 2002’s incomparably depressing Tallahassee, which chronicled a marriage in freefall, it is no walk
in the proverbial park. That said, there is some real enjoyment to be found
here. For instance, although Darnielle’s insightful songs often radiate their
own brilliance without much instrumental help, it is the bouncy arrangements that
provide some of the stellar moments, ultimately setting this album apart from
others in his catalogue. Buoyed by Matthew E. White’s snazzy horn charts (“Cry
For Judas,” “Transcendental Youth”) and drummer Jon Wurster’s tasteful backbone
(“Amy aka Spent Gladiator 1,” “Counterfeit Florida Plates”), this is the most
dynamic Mountain Goats album yet.

Indeed, more than any other
album, Transcendental Youth (almost) feels
like the work of a band. All Eternals
Deck seemed to be moving in this direction, but it still felt constrained;
it still felt like the “In-all-but-name Darnielle Solo Project” and, as such,
sometimes seemed a little careless in terms of how his wonderful compositions
were placed to music. This album is different, decisions made with some real
musical panache. Several moments stand out here, including the rising and
falling horns on “White Cedar,” also with its perfectly punctuating snare hits,
“Harlem Roulette” with its galloping bass line, and, maybe best of all, the rim
clicking at the start of “Amy aka Spent Gladiator 1.”

But the highlight of the album,
of course, remains Darnielle’s inimitable lyrical gems, couched in these
darkest of narratives. In “Harlem Roulette,” which details the final hours of
R&B great Frankie Lymon, Darnielle observes, “The loneliest people in the
whole wide world / are the ones you will never see again.” On “Amy aka Spent
Gladiator,” penned in the wake of Amy Winehouse’s death, Darnielle leads off
the album with the saddest pair of directives, whose respective subordinate
clauses almost make one shudder with their ultimate similarity: “Do every
stupid thing that makes you feel alive. / Do every stupid thing to try to drive
the dark away.” Do a decidedly not stupid
thing and pick up a Mountain Goats album. It doesn’t have to be this album, but
this one is as good as any as a good place to start.

This New Jersey punk band’s
sophomore album, The Monitor, was one
of the boldest and strangest musical adventures I had ever encountered. We can
always draw the line from the personal to the political, but the line in the
opposite direction is usually a bit fuzzier. However, over more than an hour of
painstakingly concocted punk rock, the group did just that, connecting the dots
between the Civil War and the troubles of young people in modern New Jersey.
That album’s follow-up, Local Business,
manages to be significantly more direct—both in theme and duration—than The Monitor. (Though it would be hard, I
admit, not to be.) At a breezy 49
minutes, it comes in at more than a quarter of an hour shorter and packs the
emotional wallop that The Monitor
aimed for, but sometimes fell short of.

This record, unlike the former,
is unabashedly personal. That’s one reason I like it more; even though it is punk rock, I will take catharsis over
complaint, any day of the week. The two mega-songs of the album, “My Eating
Disorder” and “Tried To Quit Smoking,” point openly to the kind of personal
mental anguish that makes this album a great listen, possibly a better one than
The Monitor.

At the center of
the album is Stickles’s pair of songs about his eating disorder—“Food Fight!”
and “My Eating Disorder.” Taken together, the songs confront Stickles’s struggles
with food with unflinching honesty, directness, and verbosity, familiar traits
from this New Jersey native. “Mom—it will take more / than a spoonful of sugar
for me to swallow my pride this time,” howls Stickles in “My Eating Disorder,” lines
clever not only for the neat metaphor, but for their broader acknowledgment of how
ideas of ‘consumption’ are inescapable, everything. Just like food.

It will be a
long time before people can focus on this album as a work standing on its own. In
the current media landscape, Ocean is being celebrated as a hero for having
jumpstarted a conversation about sexuality and homophobia in the world of
African-American music, after he posted an open letter on Tumblr talking about
how he first fell in love with a man when he was 19. While the resulting
positive conversation and the shifting sexual landscape is wonderful, this music
should not be forgotten: the album is a watershed moment in the history of
modern popular music. Period.

It’s too early,
of course, to call anything a modern masterpiece, but I’m disposed to do so
with Ocean’s debut album. Keep in mind that this is all coming from someone
usually so averse to the worlds of pop, hip-hop, rap, and R&B, that I often
have trouble recognizing the song titles on the Billboard charts. This album, despite
all my predilections, grabbed me by the collar and dragged me through it. Dominated
by polished productions and shiny, warm melodies, I am still in awe of it.

I am reminded of
Dave Eggers’s introduction to Infinite
Jest, of which he said, “[it] is like a spaceship with no recognizable
components, no rivets or bolts, no entry points, no way to take it apart. It is
very shiny, and it has no discernible flaws.” channel ORANGE is the spaceship. It is shiny and unbelievable and
strange. There are flaws, of course, but they feel purposeful and powerful in
their flaw-ness. As much as I want to describe parts of this album to you, I
know that I wouldn’t do it justice. I won’t do it—just give it a listen.

Jukebox the
Ghost is a hard band to dislike. Whoever turns their nose up at this band has a
black heart, indeed. They just sound like they’re having so much fun. Of course, you only need to skim
the track listing to know that it’s not all sunshine and rainbows in Jukebox
world. And sure, there are some ‘serious’ songs; Jukebox tackles the issues old
age and death on “Dead” (obviously) and “Adulthood” (somewhat inanely) as well
as the pressing issue of “ghosts” (are ghosts ‘serious’?) on “Ghosts in Empty
Houses” and “Don’t Let Me Fall Behind.”

But despite
these overtures towards maturity and severity, Jukebox’s latest album is mostly
just bursting with poppy energy. Like .fun, Jukebox is a group that really,
really, really understands the value of a well-placed orchestral swell or
guitar lick. Jukebox often demonstrates that tasteful ear through the intricate
movement back and forth between Ben Thornewill’s piano/keyboards and Tommy Siegel’s
guitar, which, on certain songs, creates such a dynamic fabric that it’s hard
to imagine that there are only two instruments behind it. See the highlight
“Say When,” the chorus of which represents pop song-craft in a nutshell.

Playing second fiddle in the
Scottish indie scene only to Frightened Rabbit, Admiral Fallow has crafted a
polished, profound album on their second outing. Although there is nothing here
to rival the bang and crackle of “Squealing Pigs,” the first four songs on Tree Bursts In Snow manage a depth of sonic
detail that I never could have predicted given the solid (but sometimes
surface) nature of their first album. The terrific opener, “Tree Bursts,”
features traded vocals between lead singer Louis Abbott and flautist/pianist
Sarah Hayes, with a background of intricately-layered piano, guitar, clarinet,
flute, and xylophone. The three tracks that follow inveigle with similarly
developed ideas.

If there is any frustration about
the album, it’s Abbott’s often oblique lyrics and inscrutable references (“tree
bursts in snow”?), which come into full focus on the latter half of the album,
which shies away from the complex arrangements of the opening tracks. It is
harder to connect with the downright confusing “Burn” and the strange
“Brother.” Other than that, Admiral Fallow has charted an admirable course for
its future work.

*Key tracks: “Tree Bursts,” “The Paper Trench,” “Guest of the
Government,” “Beetle in the Box,” and “Isn’t This World Enough??”

~

8. Gotye – Making Mirrors

At this point in the year, you
must have already heard Gotye’s famous tune. You’ve probably heard it once or
twice. Ten times. A thousand. A million times. You’re probably sick of it.
Griped about it. You’ve probably even complained about the countless YouTube
covers and imitators and spin-offs and satires. You probably hate Gotye at this
point. You probably wish the Australian wonderboy would rent an SUV, drive to
the Outback, and play his music to the wilderness out there. End of that story,
right? The sad thing is that you probably haven’t listened to the rest of that
album, which, indeed, encased your nightmare of a hit single. (None of this, by
the way, should convince you that I think “Somebody That I Used To Know” is a
bad song; in fact, it is one of my favorite from this year.)

So, beaten to death by the swift
lash of Top 40 radio, people have barely gotten to know Gotye. The truth of the
matter, however, is that the rest of his album, Making Mirrors, is a wonderful journey through the world of pop
music, touching on Peter Gabriel, retro-soul, and George Michael, among other
influences. Many critics found his extreme variance in style dissatisfying, but
Gotye’s exercise in pop wizardry ultimately ends up being more than mere
showmanship; it is an adventure in pop experimentation—a journey into Gotye’s
mind that starts with “What if…?” and ends with a batch of fun, wacky, and
rewarding tunes.

*Key tracks: “Somebody That I Used To Know,” “Eyes Wide Open,” “Smoke
And Mirrors,” “I Feel Better,” “State Of The Art,” and “Save Me”

~

9. Fiona Apple – The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do

This is a difficult album. You
ought to know that going in. But even though it takes time and some patience,
the rewards are there. Apple’s voice is the centerpiece here; it jumps and
dances and leaps and cracks and bends and sometimes seems to even snap. It is
an instrument in its own right and Apple treats it like one, thick with all the
tension you might imagine in a piano string. Sometimes I find myself jumpy
after listening to these tracks. This is not easy listening. This is Fiona
Apple and she demands to be taken seriously.

At the other end of this album’s
triumph is Apple’s wordplay, which traffics more in sound than meaning. More
than anyone else working in music—short of rappers, of course—Apple is willing
to sacrifice sense for flow. See this lyric in Jonathan: “Just tolerate my
little fist / tugging on your forest chest.” Read that in your head, read it
out loud, and then listen to Apple sing it—hear how she luxuriates in those
words? With her help, so can you.

I overlooked Carlile until
hearing the first track on Bear Creek;
truthfully, I was drawn in by that weird, wolfish harmony. But on repeated
listens, it was Carlile’s homespun tunes that brought me back time and again;
she is a remarkably gifted songwriter, moving effortlessly from bluesy ragers
like “Raise Hell” to soft and sweet numbers like “100.” Carlile is one of those
genre-bending musicians, swaying back and forth from pop to country to blues
and then back through again.

Listening to this album, I notice
that it is the choruses that always get me. This woman—say what you will about
the quality of her guitar-playing or her lyrics—can craft a godly chorus,
whether it is wordless (“Save Part Of Yourself”), hokey (“Keep Your Heart
Young”), comforting (“I’ll Still Be There”), or even vaguely threatening
(“Raise Hell”). These are the sections of her songs that hit home like a
freight train. You’ll be singing along in no time.

In my life, anyway, Samson had a banner
year. In February, I discovered the Weakerthans, Samson’s band, with whom I
quickly fell in love, not least because of Samson’s erudite and clever lyrics.
Shortly thereafter, I chanced upon Samson’s solo record Provincial. While I treasure several Weakerthans songs above all
other Samson compositions (even those on this album), I hold all the tunes here
in high regard. Samson’s mini-portraits of characters in his native Winnipeg
are, by turns, withering, sympathetic, lovely, warm, and sad, sad, sad. Not
convinced? How about Samson’s description of a brief thunderstorm in “Heart of
the Continent”: “Inky bruises punched into the sky by bolts of light / and then
leak across the body of tonight, / while rain and thunder drop and roll, / then
stop short of a storm, / leave the air stuck with this waiting to be born.” Are
you racing to YouTube? (What are you waiting for?)

~

12. Justin Townes Earle – Nothing’s Gonna Change The Way You Feel
About Me Now

Switching gears from 2010’s Harlem River Blues, Nothing’s Gonna Change trades a light Memphis sound for a full-bore
Memphis sound, digging deep with the horn charts. I will be the first to admit
that this album falls short of its predecessor, but, even so, is still filled
with some stellar tunes. The closing track “Movin’ On,” in particular, is powerful,
evoking the lonely life of the road and addressing those buried emotions in Earle’s
family life.

Honorable Mentions: Songs and/or albums that I loved but fell short in
one way or another

* American Aquarium – Burn.Flicker.Die

While I love hard-driving
Southern rock more than most people, lead singer and songwriter B.J. Barham
indulges himself a little too much on this album for my liking—note that the
chorus at the end of “Jacksonville” (“And if I make it out alive / I’ll call,
you know I will”) takes two full minutes to clear out of town.

* Tramped By Turtles – Stars and Satellites

As strong and as unique as this
album is at the beginning, those positive signs fade after the fifth track to
become just another bluegrass album—one which is good, but not great.

* fun. – Some Nights

You saw this one coming. Fun. fills
a niche in the pop/rock world that no one really knew existed—a mash-up of
hip-hop production with Queen-size arrangements and a voice (that of Nate
Ruess) that could enchant Broadway crowds. As for the album, there are few that
I know possessing such high highs and such low lows. My advice? Listen to the
first six tracks and be wary of those that follow.

* Alabama Shakes – “Hold On”

There are some rip-roaring tracks
on this album, but this one is the stand out. Here’s to hoping Brittany Howard
can distill that precise energy and bottle it into every song.

* Old Crow Medicine Show – “Carry
Me Back”

If you put this Old Crow song in
the ring with almost anything else on this list, “Carry Me Back” would tear it
to pieces. In terms of sheer vivacity and breakneck energy, nothing is a match
for this walloping number about a dying soldier in the Civil War.

* Langhorne Slim – “The Way We
Move”

This song feels ancient—it feels
like a lost gem from the 1940s…or ’50s…or…I don’t know, some other era when I
imagine all people sounded like this: passionate, proud, and having a
rollicking good time.

~

Minor Obsessions: Songs and albums that I fixated on for a few
weeks…but then moved on.

* Sun Kil Moon – Among The Leaves

Mark Kozelek’s fourth album of
original material under the Sun Kil Moon moniker is his weakest thus far. It is
also his funniest, warmest, and most human album in Kozelek’s entire catalogue.
(With the possible exception of his AC/DC covers album What’s Next To The Moon.) Case in point is the title of the third track:
“The Moderately Talented Yet Attractive Young Woman vs. The Exceptionally Talented
Yet Not So Attractive Middle Aged Man.” ’Nuff said?

* Field Report – Field Report

Field Report, composed of Chris
Porterfield, former bandmate of Justin Vernon yadda yadda yadda… we’ve all
heard the shtick before. The truth, sad though it makes me, is that Porterson’s
debut is not nearly so compelling as that of his famous buddy. There are
examples of true brilliance—“Fergus Falls” and “Taking Alcatraz” are both
compelling and beautiful tunes—but there is still some work to be done yet.

* Malcolm Holcombe – Down The River

Maybe you hate barebones folk
music…but you should listen to just one track.
You might fall in love with his voice—he sounds like an alcoholic Baptist
preacher. Or something like that, anyway.

* Kasey Musgraves – “Merry Go
Round”

There was a brief blog post on Slate about Musgraves earlier this fall,
which pegged her as the next big thing in country. I second that. “Merry Go
Round” is social criticism like you’ve never heard and, to top it all, comes
straight out of Nashville, the slick country capital of the universe.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

A few days ago, while paying for
an oil change in New Hartford, the mechanic glanced at my copy of Sense and Sensibility that I had set on
the counter while rummaging through my wallet for a credit card.

“Good read?” he asked.

“Huh?”

He nodded at the still brand-new
looking Broadview Press edition.

“Yeah,” I answered as I handed
the card over the counter, casting an eye at the book I needed to read for a
class. “I’m only a page or so in.”

He took the card and swiped it,
handing it back to me.

“I bought an iPad a while back
and it came with…”—he paused and looked at the ceiling—“…Little Women and Pride and
Prejudice.”

He waited a beat for me to say
something, but I was caught up in the oddity of the moment—a man wearing blue
overalls covered in grease and sideburns, telling me that he’d read a Jane
Austen novel.

“I loved both of them,” he told me with a smile, turning around a receipt
for me to sign.

~

While the above anecdote might
serve equally well as an example of my quickness to judgment, it serves also as
a reminder that Jane Austen is the great equalizer. Who doesn’t love Jane
Austen?

It’s crass, of course, to suggest
that no one dislikes Austen’s. The
social satire is not a genre for everyone. Not every reader can appreciate the
whip-tight form of her novels’ narrations and the acrobatic insults that she manages
to sneak into the page; in her hands, what would be a curt introduction to an
antagonist becomes a slippery jewel of an insult.

Stepping back from the novels,
however, it can almost seem like a wonder that the books are so loved.
Invariably, they catalogue the romantic trials and tribulations in
pre-Victorian England. They might easily be understood as merely social
portraits of a place and time—‘historical novels’ instead of timeless
explorations of love and friendship.

But they are timeless explorations—that’s precisely what makes them such a
thrill to engage with. Even Austen’s first novel, Northanger Abbey, which I recently reread (I detested the first
time I read it in freshman year), manages to speak to the way in which we
navigate the social part of our lives.

~

Perhaps as a freshman in college,
I played the part of Northanger Abbey’s
naïve protagonist Catherine Morland more than I thought. It’s easy to hate
Catherine—she is a bumbling nightmare of confused emotions, idiotic worldviews and
(this is the key) what seem like supremely silly social expectations. So I
hated Catherine when I read about her freshman year (how can she not see that
Tilney wants to marry her? how could she think the General is has some Mrs.
Rochester-type scheme going on?), but on second reading, she clarified herself
to me.

I think that all of us have felt,
at one point or another, part of Catherine’s experience: the wondering, the
confusion, the innocence. Catherine is a magnified version of me as a freshman.
As much as I would like to remember my freshman self as a person bursting with
confidence and knowledge of the world around me, I know that I saw the world as
through a foggy window—the shapes of things like friendships, alcohol,
internships, and (to sound like a true collegian) the ‘real world’ giant
shadowy figures whose outlines were hardly discernible.

Rereading Catherine Morland’s
journey towards properly negotiating her social world, I came to see that
Catherine’s experience parallels mine—and everyone else’s. That is precisely
the quality of Austen’s work that universalizes it. Even if Catherine becomes a
royal pain by the end of the novel (and oh
does she…), you can’t help but see parts of yourself reflected in her
semi-charming naïveté.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Of all the spoken word songs Guy
Clark has penned, the ode to his father, “The Randall Knife,” is the best one. More
than simply a love letter to his deceased father, the song is a paean to connecting
with a parent and a reflection on the way that we invest objects with emotion—in
the case of Clark, his father’s Randall knife.

Those familiar with Clark’s
catalogue will know that there are two
versions of the song out there, the shuffling, almost smiling cut off of
Clark’s 1983 album Better Days and
then the somber on released 12 years later on Clark’s 1995 Dublin Blues. But while the first version averts the depth and
sadness of the lyrics, the version on Dublin
Blues demonstrates that sometimes songs require not an extra line or a
variation on the melody, but some protracted reflection on their themes, in
order to be complete.

Indeed, Clark’s legacy will
reside in the Dublin Blues version of
the song, a take that not only fully embraces the weird complexity of the
knife, but allows us to sit closer to Clark in the aural space of the song. The
notion of ‘stripping-down’ a song is one that I harp on fairly often in my
posts on Pueblo Waltz and this one will be no exception; the removal of the
heavier mix found on the Better Days
version of the song results in an elegant slimming, not an ungainly weight
change.

Crucially, this ‘strip-down’
allows us to focus on the lyrics, which feel slightly trodden upon by the
arrangement in the first version. The second version allows the listener to
fully embrace the weird complexity of the knife, perhaps the most famous
lyrical symbol in Clark’s catalogue (slotting in right above “the cape” and the
“coat from the cold”). What impresses me about Clark’s knife is its status as
an object of memory. It is, as Clark frankly points out, not a tool—“almost
cutting his [father’s] thumb off / when he took it for a tool”—but an object
“made for darker things.”

Clark leaves those “darker
things” to imagination, only offering in passing the fact that his father took
the knife with him to fight during World War II. But whether the blade was ever
used to kill —is somewhat of a moot point, because the knife sat in a drawer
for most of Clark’s life, not being used at all, living as a knife vested with
memory more generally, not the memory of blood. Besides his father’s almost
thumb-removal, the only time Clark notes it having been used is when he takes
it with him to a Boy Scout jamboree, breaking “half an inch off, trying to
stick it in a tree” (if the “Jamboree” / “in a tree” rhyme sounds like mine, it
isn’t—Clark owns that cleverness).

The emotional center of the
knife’s journey—the memory stuck to it—is the forgiveness shown by Clark’s
father when the Boy Scout admits to breaking the blade. His father shows no
anger, putting it away in a desk drawer “without a hard word one.” Clark
doesn’t on those five words in the first version quite the way the does in the
second, punching each one home with a solemn weight behind it.

At the end of the song, Clark does
not claim that he ‘understood’ his father, but rather that he “found a tear for
[his] father’s life / and all that it stood for.” Looking at the lyrics, it’s
hard to say whether or not Clark achieved and ‘understanding’ of his father in
that moment—it’s even harder to say whether or not we achieve any kind of understanding. But I don’t think that we, as
listeners, are expected to see into the character of Clark’s father. All we can
do is recognize the way in which simple objects can mediate our relationships
with others, particularly after death.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

I’m sorry, July. I failed you. Five
mediocre blog posts (and one great one by Kayla!) and it was my laziest month
on record since…well, since May. As is always my excuse: I’ve been busy! Recently,
I’ve had tons of things to do, including a fantastic camping trip to the far
flat reaches of eastern Ohio. I wish I could say that I salvaged some artistic
shreds of insight from that trip (as I did with Boston and my visit to the MFA
[which I have yet to write about!]), but I didn’t run into any art museums on
my journey along I-80.

You know—it was mostly rolling
green hills and rain and semis with their running lights bristling like giant
diesel-powered Christmas trees. The only thing noteworthy of Pueblo Waltz that
occurred on the journey to and from was the lovely interlude of reading Denis
Johnson’s all-too-brief novel(la) Train
Dreams.

Recently announced as one of
three novels on the shortlist for the 2012 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction (there
was no winner), I felt that I had to dig into Johnson’s short book because a)
why not read something short-listed for the Pulitzer? and b) it clocked in at
just over 100 sparsely-texted pages. As it turns out, there might have been
nothing more appropriate than sitting down in a family diner in middle-of-nowhere,
Pennsylvania to chow down on a combination of omelet, steak, and hash browns than Johnson’s cozy little book.

The novella focuses on the life
of Robert Grainier, a laborer in the Pacific Northwest during the first half of
the 20th-century. Part of me feels that explaining any of the
details of Grainier’s hardscabble existence would be spoiling some of the joy
of reading about them. The other joy of the novella is Johnson’s exacting
language, which resides somewhere between the concision of Hemingway and the whip-tight
prose of Annie Proulx.

Indeed, there is something of “Big
Two-Hearted River”-era Nick Adams in Johnson’s Grainier, who is quiet and steadfast and concentrates mighty hard on the mundane tasks of day-by-day frontier life. Sprinkled within the chronicle of Grainier's tough life (logging, helping build railroads, feeding himself) there are places in the text where Johnson’s language crackles with
descriptive brilliance. One of the most delightful passages is when a middle-aged Grainier looks out across a
sunset landscape in the Pacific Northwest:

“Beyond, he saw the Canadian
Rockies still sunlit, snow-peaked, a hundred miles away, as if the earth were
in the midst of its creation, the mountains taking their substance out of the
clouds. He’d never seen so grand a prospect. The forests that filled his life
were so thickly populous and so tall that generally they blocked him from
seeing how far away the world was, but right now it seemed there were mountains
enough for everybody to get his own” (Johnson 112).

In that way, Train Dreams has a literary firepower similar to another American
western epic, Norman MacLean’s A River
Runs Through It. Both books revel in the brazen storytelling of a simple
tale and the intricate way that language can be molded around it. Highly
recommended for a summer highway read.

Search This Blog

About Me

Welcome to Pueblo Waltz! My name is Taylor Coe and I am a senior at Hamilton College in the wilds of upstate New York (land of crisp apples and crisper winters). This blog is home to my musings on topics from the fantastic quality of Townes Van Zandt's songwriting to the somewhat thornier issues of film theory to my obsession with John Singer Sargent! Subscribe if you like what you see!